


Each Coming Night

by youcanchoosefreedom



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Multi, Post-Series, Seriously there is a lot of angst, With some smut, because its black sails, but it has a silverflint endgame, just as a heads up, ten years is a long time and everyone changes, this starts out as flinthamilton, treasure island is a fake bitch and i don't know her, ur welcome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-06 22:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15204824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcanchoosefreedom/pseuds/youcanchoosefreedom
Summary: Will you say to them when I'm gone"I loved your son for his sturdy armsWe both learned to cradle then live without"Or- James Flint is left to deal with the aftermath of John Silver's decisions on Skeleton Island.Or- I had to throw my hat in the ring for a post-series fic and suddenly it's taken on a life of its own.





	1. Claim your ghost

Flint is still not entirely convinced that this is real.

It had been a long trip in the cramped hold of a ship, followed by a longer trip by carriage in a land where the sun baked the moisture into the air. Flint felt as though he choked each breath down. Manacles clanked tunelessly about his wrists with each bump of the road. And then an exchange of a faded velvet purse and one ex-captain, and then- Thomas. Thomas was standing in front of him, whole and breathing and suddenly Flint was gasping, digging his hands into Thomas’ back. Silver had told him, but Flint had figured it for a low blow from a desperate man. But Thomas was alive and pressing his lips once, furtively, against Flint’s own before resting their foreheads together and Flint thought then that he was dead. Silver had shot him in the gut and this was what- some sort of hallucination? Heaven? Hell? Moments of shared breath had passed before a soft touch on Flint’s back had drawn him back. Another man in the same white simple clothes was beside them, and Flint, still in shock, let the two of them guide him to his new home.

A week later, and Flint is still unsure that he isn’t rotting on a forest floor and that this place wasn’t purgatory.

After that first night, where Flint hadn’t slept for fear that Thomas would disappear from the bunk next to his own, he was given his own sets of rough homespun clothing. The foreman (Simon, who had helped Thomas guide him to the bunkhouse the day before) had placed a shovel in Flint’s hands. A hysterical laugh had almost threatened to burst from his throat as echoes of Homer leapt to the forefront of his mind, but Flint had managed to swallow it down. Simon pointed out where he was to excavate an irrigation ditch, and then left Flint to dig.

And now. Now, Thomas is sitting on the bunk across from his own and is looking at Flint in a way that is both familiar and foreign. They stare at one another, tallying up the toll the years have taken. Flint feels like a condemned man desperate to memorize every detail of life before the noose tightens. The silence between them is pregnant. Thomas twists his fingers together, once, before asking.

“How?”

It’s half laughed, filled with baffled wonder. Candlelight flickers, catching in the soft blue of Thomas’s eyes. It’s the first time they’ve been able to have a moment alone and actually talk. Flint shakes his head, blinking. The answer is John Silver, pointing a gun at his head with tears in his eyes, and the taste of betrayal and defeat rising like bile in the back of Flint’s throat.

“We thought you dead,” he says instead. “Peter Ashe-” he spits the name out, but chokes on the one unsaid. Flint runs a hand over his face, suddenly overwhelmed with it all again. Thomas may be sitting in front of him, drawing breath, but Miranda is still gone, lost to him forever. A hysteric thought bubbles up- that he was never allowed to have them both, that his greed and want had tipped the scales in his favor for only a brief moment in London, before the universe set forth to correct the balance.

“We lost you,” he states, forcing himself to calm. “And I became someone new. I-” he cuts himself off. _I killed in your name, he was going to say. I was going to make them all pay, going to show them you were not a monster. I was so close to changing history for you._ But he hadn’t, in the end, had he? Flint had clawed his way to to the top of Nassau, had shed flotsam of his humanity in the process, had lost and lost and lost- and for what? Thomas sitting in front of him, face lit in tallow candle flame was never a prize he had imagined. Was never the goal he had dreamed of.

Thomas must read something of the war of emotions on his face, as he places a hand gently on Flint’s own. Flint grasps it tightly, a lifeline. Rough calluses catch against his own and he twists his eyes shut. The years since London are pressing down on him, a roaring chasm between two rough wood bunks and he’s choking on all of the grief and blood that threaten to overflow the banks.

“I can’t talk about it, Thomas,” he finally gets out. “Not yet.” Thomas’s eyes hold his own, searching and going kind as they find something. He places a hand on Flint’s nape, and draws their foreheads together. A thumb brushes behind his ear and Flint exhales.

“It’s alright,” Thomas murmurs into the space between them. “You’re here now, that’s all that matters. It’s alright.” And Thomas always could have Flint believing the most far-fetched ideas. He lets himself sink into Thomas’s calm, and locks the past away again inside himself.

\--

Another day of digging done, and Flint has new blisters opening on his hand to show for it. He’s sitting a few steps from the cook fire for the bunkhouse, examining his palms and the going-ons around him. The owner of this place- Oglethorpe? Flint wasn’t quite paying attention that day in the dark office- utilized a mix of slaves, indentured servants, and the condemned to work his land. To Flint’s surprise, there is less segregation between the groups that he would have supposed. Men of all colors and former walks of life sit amongst each other around this fire, conversing quietly between bites of hominy and thin stew. A few moments later, and Flint sees why.

Thomas appears from the direction of the tobacco fields, and meanders slowly through the group. He pauses to talk softly with the various groupings of workers- small talk, from what Flint can hear, but Thomas is giving each and every man his full focus. Flint watches, an eyebrow raised, as the other men relax under Thomas’ attention, the way smiles became broader and laughs easier. By the time Thomas sits next to him, his own bowl of supper finally obtained, the others gathered have shifted so that they are all looking at Thomas, a natural semi-circle with the two of them at the head. Flint’s head spins uncomfortably and he sees the thick curtains in the Hamilton’s drawing room and sees the cream of society looking up at him and Thomas, wearing the same expressions as the slaves in front of him do now.

“How long,” he questions, voice pitched just for Thomas’ ears, “did it take for the former lords to be comfortable brushing elbows with those from the slave ships?” Thomas shoots a ruthless grin in Flint’s direction as his answer. Flint shakes his head, bemused, and returns his attention to his meal.

A lanky dark-skinned man lopes over to the two of them, and takes his seat on Thomas’ other side.

“There are stories coming out of Pleasant Plantation,” the man says by way of greeting. Thomas shifts, turning towards him and waving a spoon to continue. His dark eyes flit over to Flint, obviously reluctant to state anything sensitive in his presence. Thomas swallows his mouthful of hastily chewed meat and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, Ikenna, let me introduce you.” He waves a hand in Flint’s direction, and continues “This is my oldest friend, James McGraw. He’s recently joined us under very similar circumstances to my own. I have trusted him with my most private secrets, and he has proven his discretion. Please, continue.” Flint’s stomach is twisting itself into knots, and he swallows back his knee-jerk refute of Thomas’ words. He instead gives Ikenna a brief nod, which the other man returns. Ikenna wets his lips with a pink tongue and nods again, to himself.

“Jacob says that there has been talk coming from those at Pleasant in the market. They’ve heard rumors that the plantations closer to the coast have seen violence.” Ikenna pauses, eyes flitting at the quiet pockets of conversation around them, before lowering his voice and continuing. “They say one word only- rebellion.” Thomas, who until this point had been steadily working away at his meal, shoots a sharp glance at Ikenna.

“What proof have they that this is rebellion and not raiding?” Thomas’ voice is quiet, but has taken on a commanding tone that Flint recognizes less from a London parlor and more from a salt-sprayed deck. “The last violence we heard of from the coast was of pirate raids and stolen men.” Thomas glances subtly at Flint as he says this, but Ikenna doesn’t notice.

“Those at Pleasant that have family working farther east have already slipped away. None of the hunters have found them,” Ikenna insists. “It is happening.”

Thomas hums, and stares out across the men in front of him. Flint knows the stare of a man whose thoughts are miles away from his body. Thomas had always been one to get caught in a reverie. Flint had interrupted him from his thinking countless times in London- at first, from a respectable arms length away with a cleared throat and later, with a dry kiss to Thomas’ temple. He traces his own lips, subconsciously, as he watches Thomas’ face as he thinks. It’s not the face of a contemplative lord, but one, Flint realizes, of a commander contemplating the field. He wonders, briefly, how long that look at been at home on his own face.

Thomas exhales, suddenly, a decision made.

“We will keep listening to the talk coming out of Pleasant,” he addresses Ikenna. “Until we hear more, we will listen and contemplate.” Flint expects an argument, but Ikenna nods his assent and moves off, presumably to spread Thomas’ decision. Anxiety blooms slowly in Flint’s chest, familiar from the last six months of his life before here. Thomas sits beside him, alive, but with a hardened faced carved from immovable marble and cutting glass-blue eyes. He still holds court with his peers, but this too has shifted, and Flint knows the kind of murmured conversations leaders have in the dark. He’s lost one war, and worries he has found himself instead staring at the precipice of another.

\--

Flint tries to ignore the feeling as long as he can. He follows Thomas to their respective bunks in the corner, listens quietly as Thomas chatters on about innocuous topics with the others. Flint lets Thomas press a soft kiss to his mouth after the last light is extinguished, and then stares at the ceiling above his head.

It’s been less than a fortnight, and already, the man he was seems like a ghost. Half a month ago, he’d been at the head of the greatest army of free people the world had known. Half a month ago, he’d been clinging desperately at the threads that held them all together. Half a month ago, he’d been losing another partner despite himself. Flint sighs, and rolls to his side. Half a month ago, he was half dead with exhaustion and half mad with ambition. It feels like failure to admit that the past ten days of simple labor have felt like a respite. Whether due to the shock or something else, Flint’s mind has been blessedly quiet. It didn’t take much brains to dig a damned ditch, and he can’t remember the last time he hadn’t been holding ten different courses of action in his head. Tonight’s conversation has shuffled up the spectre of Captain Flint inside himself, and leaves him conflicted.

Thomas rolls over on his own bunk and Flint can see a hint of a smile shine out of the darkness. It’s been ten days and his heart still freezes in his chest and calls out _Thomas!_ every time he sees the other man. Half a month ago, he thinks, he didn’t have Thomas back from the dead. It’s as though something cracks within him, and he has to stop from gasping in a lungful of air. The night air is full of the shuffling sounds of sleep and settling from the others in the bunkhouse, and Flint makes a decision. He is not the man he was for the past ten years. Flint is done sacrificing happiness for victory and he’s so, so tired of fighting. He pushes himself up, quietly, and slips into Thomas’ bed.

“Finally,” Thomas breathes and drags him down to devour his mouth. Flint remembers at the last second to stifle his groan and settles for licking into Thomas’ mouth as deep as he can get. He feels out of practice, stumbling the steps to this dance but then - oh. Thomas has wiled his hand into the front of Flint’s pants and is twisting his wrist and this, this Flint remembers. He feels like a youth again, unable to do anything but jerk his hips and pant into Thomas’ mouth before much too soon he’s coming, spilling into the cupped hand at the tip of his cock. It’s embarrassing and Flint can feel Thomas’s quiet chuckle against him. He shuts him up by licking his own palm, and shoving his hand into Thomas’ own pants.

_God_ , he thinks, when was the last time he let himself do anything like this? The last time his hand brought someone else pleasure and not pain? He mouths down Thomas’ jaw to tongue at the join between neck and shoulder and Thomas shudders. To Flint’s satisfaction, Thomas doesn’t last much longer than him, coming with a soft sigh against his cheek.

In the aftermath, Flint draped ungracefully over Thomas and both of them sticky, the last piece of his resolve snaps into place. He will make his place here, with Thomas. He will forget the sea and the way men listened when he opened his mouth. He will trade his oar for a shovel and make himself anew, again. In return, Flint will learn to live in peace. This, he tells himself, pressing a kiss to Thomas’ throat, this will be enough.

\--

They are weeding the furrows of the field that will be planted with peas. Some sort of vining plant has taken advantage of the lapse between the last frost and now. It’s a tenacious little shit of a plant, and Flint measures his morning in the slow, steady chop of his hoe.

He’s contemplating, vaguely, if he’d get lashed for just setting the fucking field ablaze and being done with it, when a pained gasp comes from his right. It’s Nate, a young exile of London society, now collapsed on the ground and grasping his left ankle with both hands. Flint doesn’t think- he clings to his hoe like he once would a weapon, and moves to the other man’s side.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, but even as the words leave his mouth, he sees the coiled brown body and gaping, white mouth hissing up at him from paces away. _Fuck_ , he thinks emphatically. The snake regards him warily for a few seconds, before dashing to make its escape in the direction of the tobacco fields. Flint lunges, and the recently sharpened blade of the hoe catches the cottonmouth in center of its back. The thing writhes, and Flint raises his hoe again to hack again, until the snake’s head is separate from its body.

Nate is groaning now, lowly, and when Flint turns to help him, sweat is dripping down the other man’s face. _Fuck,_ he thinks again. Nate’s discarded his stocking and left claw marks up his calf, and Flint can clearly see two small punctures in the center of a growing bruise.

“I’m sorry,” Nate gasps as Flint crouches by him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Henry and Christopher, the other slaves closest to them, approaching.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Flint bites out. He slips an arm under the other man’s shoulders and lifts Nate to a standing position. Nate sags against him, unable to even test weight on his bitten leg. “We have to get you off the field,” Flint urges, and begins to move slowly so Nate can hop beside him. He keeps his mind purposely focused on the task at hand, ignoring the memories of doing this in another life.

“What’s happened?” Henry and Christopher have reached them, and Henry is clutching frantically at Nate’s other arm. Flashes of the Henry and Nate curled close together at meals, their heads nearly touching as they spoke quietly come to Flint’s mind, and he feels something answer inside himself.

“Snake bite,” he tells them. “Henry, help me get him off the field. Christopher-” Flint meets the other’s dark eyes, serious. Henry is the faster runner out of the two of them, but Flint will be damned if he makes the other leave Nate now. “I need you to get the overseer, have him fetch Oglethorpe. Nate needs a doctor, immediately.” Christopher nods, and heads off in search of their supervisor.

Flint and Henry move Nate slowly, and Flint ignores both Nate’s soft crying and Henry’s murmured reassurances. Oglethorpe employed two overseers for his small plantation. Flint had met Simon his first day, and had grown to respect the man. Half Flint’s age, Simon had practically been raised behind these fences, and had grown naturally into the role of foreman. He was a fair taskmaster- able to ensure the timely completion of work without undue suffering on the part of the laborers. The other overseer was Francis.

“What’s this?” The man himself is striding angrily up to the field as fast as his short legs allow. Drink and sun have left his face in a permanent scowl sprinkled with burst blood vessels. His dirt-caked hands fondle the whip that sits proudly on display on his hip. Christopher is nowhere to be seen, and Flint hopes that he’s gone in search of Simon.

“Snake bite,” Flint repeats as they reach the end of the field. Francis huffs, and leans forward to yank Nate’s injured leg up for a better view. Nate cries out and Flint can feel Henry’s arm stiffen against his own.

“We need to get him inside,” Flint instructs, and Francis’s bloodshot eyes snap to his own. Ignoring the raised eyebrow, he continues “And you need to send someone to fetch a doctor. It was a cottonmouth and he’ll need his leg tended to by someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Taking in the look of disgusted disbelief on Francis’s face, Flint knows that he’s handled this wrong. He should have been less commanding, should have played to Francis’s ego and cajoled him into thinking helping Nate was his idea. But that was never his forte- he was used to barking orders and having others follow, as they all generally came from a place of reason. He had forgotten, in the urgency of the moment, everything that has changed.

“I _need_ to send someone to fetch the doctor?” Francis sneers. “I think what I need to do is have my two able bodied workers get back into that field. And if they continue to waste their time and mine, I think I _need_ to remind them exactly who the fuck they think they are.” Anger flashes quick and overwhelming, and Flint finds himself welcoming his old companion, relieved to find it hadn’t completely abandoned him in his strange new life.

“I think that you’ll find out exactly who the fuck I think I am, unless you get the fuck out of our way and go fetch the doctor.” The words spill out and Flint realizes, again, he’s made a series of mistakes here, but he cannot find it in himself to care because it feels too good. It’s been too long since he’s been in a fight he knew he could win and suddenly he finds himself itching for split knuckles and blood in his mouth.

The three of them- Nate’s head is lolling on Henry’s shoulder, panting- regard each other for a moment, violence simmering below the surface. Francis’s face is twisted and the whip is in his white-knuckled fist. Flint can feel his blood rise as he adjusts his footing, ready to take the first blow, when a hand clutches his shoulder. Henry is holding him back and when Flint meets his eyes, the other’s are pleading. A glance down and Nate’s leg has continued to swell, turning a horrid purple. Nate doesn’t have the time for Flint and Francis’s pissing contest, and Flint feels his anger rush away from him like the tide. It leaves him dry and exhausted, and he can tell when Francis notices the change. Triumph spreads across his cracked face.

“Henry, take him to the bunkhouse. I’ll send someone with the medicine chest shortly.” Henry obeys Francis quickly, shooting one worried glance over his shoulder back at Flint as he leaves. Flint nods at him and returns his attention to the man in front of him.

“I like to think myself a nice man, Mr. McGraw.” Francis drawls the last name, and the ire it raises is enough to keep Flint from snorting at the obvious lie. “A forgiving man. A Christian man.” The other man takes a step forward, crowding into Flint’s space.

“Normally, for insubordination, I’d strip your back raw.” Francis caresses the handle of his whip again and the vulgar motion sets Flint’s stomach churning. “But, seeing as it’s almost planting season and we need every able hand _on the field-_ ” Flint grits his teeth at the emphasis, reminding himself that arguing will only make whatever’s about to happen worse. “I wager ten strikes ought to remind you both of who _I_ am and where you are.”  And then Francis is placing a hand on his shoulder and attempts to shove Flint down. Flint resists, innately- no one has dared touch him with such ugly disregard since Charles Town that he’s stunned by it, briefly. He’s _Captain Flint_ , he thinks with bewildered arrogance, _he’s destroyed navy fleets and killed men through sheer force of will, he_ \- whatever thought came next is replaced abruptly with _not anymore_.

The shock of it makes his knees go out from underneath him and he falls before Francis’s smug face. He numbly removes his shirt when requested, feeling as though once again the world has shifted entirely.

As the first blow comes down, Flint finally realizes what Silver has done. Silver has left him- Captain Flint, monster of the seas- buried in a shallow grave on a godforsaken rock. He had made a decision to let Flint rest the first time he had Thomas back in his arms. He had taken Flint’s- his own- silent aquisance to his fate as one borne from exhaustion, not the indifference of a corpse. But no. Captain Flint was dead, and in his place, James McGraw was clawing his way out of the grave of the past.


	2. Teeth in the Grass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And when there's nothing to want_   
>  _When we're all brilliant and fast_   
>  _When all tomorrows are gone_   
>  _There will be teeth in the grass_

“Who did this?” 

Thomas’ voice barks out across the barrack, and Flint has just enough wherewithal to stop himself from flinching in response. Francis had sent him back to the field after his whipping and Flint had weighed dinner between collapsing into his bunk and, well- here he was, on his stomach in bed, doing his damnedest to ignore the way his shirt was sticking to the scabbing wounds. The itching was at least serving as a useful distraction from the revelation he’d had in the field earlier. Thomas’ hand, worlds gentler than his voice, smooths softly down Flint’s calf and worries at his ankle. 

“Francis,” Flint begins and the fingers encircling his leg immediately tighten. 

“That pompous prick, I knew he couldn’t resist throwing his weight around-” Thomas hisses.

“Francis,” Flint interrupts, “was not pleased when I argued with him. I paid the price. It’s nothing.” With effort, he rolls himself up into a seated position and faces Thomas, who looks ready to argue. Flint silences him with a hand pressed to the red of his cheeks, brushing a thumb along rough stubble. 

“I’m fine, Thomas,” he assures, quietly. The look he gets in return is reproachful, but Thomas doesn’t seem seconds from storming the overseer’s cabin, so Flint will take it. He weighs telling Thomas that honestly, this is nothing compared to what he’s weathered, but settles on changing the subject instead. 

“Have you heard if Nate is all right?” 

Thomas draws in a breath, and blows it out, along with some tension. He nods. 

“It was bad, but it looks like he won’t lose the leg. Those kind of bites, though…” Thomas shakes his head and twines his fingers with Flint’s. “He probably won’t walk right again. Most likely have a limp. If he’s lucky, he’ll get moved off the field.” He trails off again and Flint knows that luck is few and far between in a place like this.

“And Henry?” he asks softly. A small smile flits across Thomas’ face- no doubt he’s realized that Flint recognizes the strange kinship the four of them share. 

“Worried sick, but he’ll live, too.” Thomas smiles then, fondly, and says “I know the feeling, intimately”, before glancing around the room- empty, as everyone is still outside enjoying their meager supper. He clasps Flint’s nape and pulls him forward for a kiss. 

The soft press of lips and the stomach-wrenching tug of stiff cloth against wounds sends Flint spiraling and for a moment he’s in Miranda’s kitchen as she tends to his aches, both physical and spiritual. Grief lances through his stomach and _Christ_ , he hasn’t even told Thomas about Miranda yet. 

Bile rises in his throat and he jerks back. How could he be so selfish? He’s here, alive at the end of it all, kissing her husband, who knows nothing of her death. For all his romanticising in the field, he still draws breath and she is the one that truly lies in a pauper’s grave. Flint’s pulse begins ratcheting up and sweat beading on his lip. This place isn’t purgatory, it’s hell, and Flint is going to have to recount every sin to Thomas, going to have to watch the man he’s done every misdeed for be pared away from him with each confession. 

He gasps and he knows Thomas is watching him, eyes wide. For a moment, he feels as though he’s going to vomit, but instead-

“She died,” Flint blurts and immediately wishes he could choke the words back. Thomas’ face crumples completely for a breath, before he smoothes it back out. Flint can feel it all, the whole horrid story clawing up out of his gullet, but he’d give anything not to cause that expression again. 

“Oh,” Thomas says, with only the slight waver in his voice. “I’d figured. After I hadn’t heard from either of you after being moved here, I had believed that something terrible had befallen you. And I’d realized that after, when it was just you standing there, that I was wrong. It was just Miranda, wasn’t it?” 

Some small, evil part of him, a part that Flint is ashamed of, wants to cry out that no, Thomas had been right. Something terrible had befallen both of them, but Flint had been unable to die, despite all efforts to the contrary. It was a terrible curse, to survive the ones he loved. 

Thomas’ face screws up and his spine stiffens, as though he’s preparing himself for a blow. And _oh_ , Flint knows what’s going to fall out of his mouth before his lips even part and for a moment all he can see is the perfect red circle in the center of Miranda’s forehead. 

“How?” Thomas whispers and it’s all Flint can do to remain sitting up. The sting along his back is nothing compared to the rotting ache rolling inside of him. The guilt- of leaving her alone on that island, of pushing her aside for so many years and then finally, to listen against common sense and let her walk straight into danger’s mouth- it’s eating him inside like a cancer. 

“Quick,” he chokes out. “Painlessly.” His mouth moves, trying to tell Thomas more, but his tongue has withered.Thomas watches, every muscle trembling in restraint. Flint writhes like a stuck worm on a hook under Thomas’ gaze, until something that looks all too much like disgust crosses his face. 

“Good,” Thomas states, woodenly. “I’m glad she didn’t suffer.” The words hit harder than the whip, the careful disconnect shredding all of Flint's defenses. His eyes focus on something beyond Flint’s shoulder, his jaw working. Flint swallows a mouthful of shame and lets his own eyes fall to the floor. The silence that falls between them is harsher than any condemnation. Thomas stands and walks slowly out of the barracks, never once breaking his stride. Flint buries his face in his hand, and gives himself over to his grief. 

\---

Thomas is already off to the far fields by the time Flint emerges from the bunkhouse in the morning. He picks at the hard bread and cheese that serves as their breakfast, despite his lack of dinner the night before. It might be his melancholia, but the whole plantation seems on edge in the muggy morning. Flint is surprised to see he gets a few head nods of solidarity- talk of his beating must have spread at the evening meal. Other than that, every other man is content to sit on the hard ground and work his jaws into the difficult bread instead of talk. 

Flint and his crew are led back to the same field they were clearing the day before, and Francis smirks as he hands Flint a hoe. The vision of the sharpened metal cleaving that shit-eating smile off the man’s weathered face mollifies Flint’s ego as he takes the tool and turns towards the rows. Henry is next to him, and as though sensing Flint’s thoughts, bumps shoulders with him. 

“I never said thank you, yesterday,” Henry says as they walk through the field to yesterday’s stopping place. “Thanks to you standing up to Francis, Nate’s keeping his leg. And I know you paid for it, so, thank you,” he finishes awkwardly. He shuffles his feet a moment before moving to his own row and beginning to chop at the stubborn weeds. Flint turns the words over in his mind as he begins his own labor and it’s a subdued pleasure that the thanks eases the ache on his back. 

\---

After what seems like an eternity, the daylight begins to wane and Francis is blowing the whistle for end of day. Flint’s never been one unused to hard labor- he’d been helping in his family’s carpentry shop since before he could remember- but his back is throbbing and his stomach is voicing its displeasure at his meager meals over the last day. It’s with great pleasure that he collapses by the fire with a bowl of boiled saltpork and corn mush. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Flint watches as Thomas appears and begins his nightly rounds. Guilt makes its tendrils known at his arrival, winding between Flint’s ribs. Thomas deserved Miranda’s full story, he knows that, and yet still the thought of baring it all was unbearable. There was shame, of course, of how he had let their bright, beautiful Miranda languish in the hot Caribbean interior. But it was undercut with an ugly jealousy that Flint is wholly unfamiliar with and surprises him in its intensity. At the end of it all, Miranda had been his wife longer than she had ever been Thomas’. It was she that had watched McGraw choke on every repressed urge and flash of anger, and had pulled Flint from the darkness of his shame. It was she that had stood witness to his transformation and loved him still. For ten years, she had been his refuge and his catalyst. Flint has no words to explain to Thomas the savage tenderness of their triumphant lovemaking the night he had returned from the Maria Aleyne. Flint has no words to describe to Thomas the acts he committed on the Maria Aleyne. 

For the first time since that day on the cliff, Flint thinks he understands how Silver could so easily lock up his past. 

Flint’s chain of thought is thankfully disrupted by Thomas sitting next to him. The brief press of his side against his own sparks a discordant mess of joy and yearning that joins the guilt in his gut. Thomas says nothing, but the hand that twines through his own and squeezes feels like mercy. It’s not forgiveness, but if Thomas is willing to let the past remain unspoken for now, Flint will take it. 

They eat in comfortable silence as Thomas’ usual audience gathers around them. Their nightly conversations range in topic from the mundane to higher pursuits of knowledge, but they are all helmed by Thomas. With a well timed comment or question, the discussion flows comfortably under his direction. By the time that their bowls have been scraped clean (Flint had seriously considered licking the remnants of the mush out of the rough wood), the normal chatter has quieted in anticipation of Thomas’ words. 

Before Thomas can speak, another speaks up. 

“There’s been more talk of violence to the east.” The lilting voice belongs to Murdoch, a large Scot serving out his indentured servitude among them. Flint isn’t surprised to see Ikenna sitting at his side. “They say that whole plantations have been overrun.”

Thomas digests this information as the others begin to murmur. A small crease appears between his brows, and Flint wants to smooth it with his thumb, despite the past twenty-four hours. 

“I was thinking,” Thomas begins, “of discussing some philosophy this evening, if you all would be so kind to indulge me.” The murmuring dies out in the wake of his even voice. 

“Many years ago, in another lifetime, I read a most interesting book. It’s one that sought to examine the idea of government. The author supposes that the individual and the government enter into a contract.” Thomas settles into his role of lecturer, his eyes shining with a familiar gleam as he continues. 

“The author had many interesting ideas and it’s such a pity that we don’t have a copy here. However, he states that the individual trades some of his freedom in order to exist within a cooperative society, underneath a government.” 

Christopher, who Flint hadn’t seen join them, snorts at this. “I don’t remember trading shit, Tom. I remember white men and a long journey in the belly of a ship.” The drawled proclamation earns a few laughs and shouts of agreement from the other men. Thomas chuckles and shakes his head, holding up his hand. 

“You’re right, and I am certain I signed nothing when dragged into Bedlam. However, the author of this particular tract had comments on slavery, in the face of this.” The good-natured grin splashed across Thomas’ face turns sharp, and Flint feels an involuntary shiver. 

“You see, the author claims that the natural state of all man is freedom. Free from society, free from laws. We allow ourselves to surrender some of this freedom to embrace the luxuries of society- the insurance that if one does wrong against you, there will be consequences. But all men are greedy, especially men in power. And when more and more of our freedom is taken- is stolen from us, by the very ones who are meant to protect us, what do you suppose our author states is the solution?” 

Thomas has every man waiting with baited breath, and Flint had forgotten how good Thomas was at this. The years had not erased the fervent way his eyes lit, his masterful turn of phrase to lead others to his conclusion for him. So much Flint had learned from him, he realizes, in such a short amount of time. 

“It is the moral obligation of man, he states, to throw off the shackles of tyranny- of complete and utter domination of yourself, when you find yourself in that position.” Thomas’ grin fades, and his features harden. “I found that,” he finishes, voice solid as stone, “very interesting.” 

Silence rings in response to his declaration. A rushing is rising in Flint’s ears- it is one thing to keep apprised of any local attempts at rebellion, but it sure seems that Thomas is trying to incite one here. What the war could have been, he thinks, had they had Thomas at their side for the past year. The thought sends shocks of fear down his spine. The image of Thomas at one side with Silver at the other as they raged against the British is glorious and naseauting all at once. Flint stands and stalks off, hoping a walk will clear it from his mind. 

Thomas finds him nearly a quarter of an hour later, pacing behind the bunkhouses. He whirls at the soft footsteps behind him. The tangled, frantic emotions have melted into anger, familiar and welcoming in its brilliance. It propels him through the warm night, and he welcomes having a target at which to aim his ire. 

“What was that?” he snarls, pushing up into Thomas’ space. The cool eyebrow raise he gets in response only makes his blood boil more. “I have spent the last ten years of my life trying to avoid the noose. It seems you, on the other hand, are more than happy to help fasten it all around our necks.” Thomas opens his mouth at that, but Flint doesn’t let him start. 

“Preaching for an uprising? A slave rebellion? While the men who enslave us are within yelling distance? I remembered you being reckless with your politics, but this, this, Thomas. This is insane.” Thomas growls and twists his hands into the collar of Flint’s shirt and shoves him back. Flint stumbles, shocked. He’s never seen Thomas lift a hand in anger, and especially not directed at him. The tanned, screwed up face in front of him seems like one of a stranger in the weak moonlight. 

“You were never a coward, James,” Thomas bites out. “You know exactly what that was. That was hope, and truth.” He shoves Flint again, hands still wrapped in his shirt. “You’ve been here for a fortnight. That is nothing. I’ve been here for too many years, and I refuse to stay in here for any more without some sort of resistance.”

Flint scoffs, and presses into Thomas’s hands. 

“And what happens, Thomas, when your words become much more than words? When the fighting breaks out, are you prepared for what must be done?” He grasps Thomas’ shoulders and pushes him back against the rough siding of the bunkhouse, digs his fingers into muscle. He wants to claw his anger into deep furrows over Thomas’ shoulder blades just as much he wants to cling desperately to the body in front of him.

“I’ve only been in here for two weeks, yes. But I’ve been out there,” he jabs a finger in the vague direction of the main gate, “Thomas, for far longer than you. I know what follows speeches like the one you gave tonight. You have no idea what-.”

“I don’t know because you haven’t told me, James,” Thomas interrupts, his voice rising to meet the anger in his eyes. “All I know is you looked half dead on arrival and that my wife is dead, and I don’t even know how or when she died because you won’t tell me.” Thomas punctuates his last four words by struggling against Flint’s hold, increasingly more frustrated until he breaks, and swings at Flint’s stomach. The blow is weak- improperly aimed and executed in the heat of the moment- but it still manages to knock Flint’s breath away through the sheer surprise of the attack. With it, his anger falls away and he’s left clasping at Thomas’ shoulders, gasping. 

Thomas’ eyes are huge in the dark, a look of utter shock written on his face. 

“I- I didn’t mean,” he stammers, his fists clenching and unclenching in Flint’s shirt. Flint draws him in and lowers his head to cradle it in the crook between Thomas’ sweat-sticky neck and shoulder. Thomas freezes, before slowly bringing his arms around Flint’s back. Now that the fight has left him, he needs Thomas as close as he can- to assure himself that he hasn’t lost him yet again.

“I’m sorry,” Flint murmurs into Thomas’ skin. “After we lost you, I told you, I became someone new.” He burrows his forehead further into Thomas, clasps him tighter to himself. “I became the monster they wanted me to be. I spent so long wearing that mask I lost myself. The things I’ve done…” Thomas runs a soothing hand down his spine, and presses his own face into Flint’s neck. 

“Miranda was my fault,” he confesses. “She died in Charles Town.” He doesn’t tell Thomas that he was the one who sacked the town, the one who commanded that the entire city serve as her funeral pyre. He suspects that if Thomas spends more than ten minutes thinking it over, he’ll connect the recently murdered pirate captain to the man in front of him, but he won’t be the one to lead him down that path. 

Thomas huffs a wet breath out against his throat, and Flint tries to resolutely ignore the own tears on his face. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and presses a kiss to Thomas’ jugular. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, his hands scrabbling for purchase under Thomas’ shirt, his lips trying to cover every exposed inch of skin he can find. Thomas says nothing, just bites back gently at the cords in Flint’s own neck, and curls a hand around his skull. Tongue follows sharp teeth, and it’s as though a dam has broken. They’re pawing at each other like drowning man, desperate for one last breath before surrendering beneath the waves. 

Flint’s hand finds its way into Thomas’ pants and curls around the hard length within. Thomas’ hips stutter into his own as his palm catches against the head. Thomas releases a breath of frustration and shoves his breeches halfway down his thighs, freeing Flint to move his hand with more precision. A few twists of his wrists have Thomas whining into Flint’s collarbone and Flint can taste sweat and dust on his tongue but he wants more. 

He drops to his knees as though shot, and looks up at Thomas in the moonlight. The light throws his features into relief, and with his hands grasping at James’ shoulders and the look of pained ecstasy on his face, Thomas resembles a carved marble saint, both untouchable and intensely human. He leans forward and the first taste of him bursts like a benediction on Flint’s tongue and he groans, overwhelmed. 

This is insanely stupid, some part of him is aware. They’re only separated by the rest of the men by a building, and it’s not dark enough against the wall to hide exactly what they’re doing. But God himself would have to reach down from the heavens to drag Flint away from trying to draw pleasure and penance both from Thomas on his knees. 

Thomas is heavy and perfect on his tongue, and Flint’s own cock is straining against his trousers. He takes Thomas down to the root, and swallows compulsively, feeling himself starting to drool, before pulling back to lave the head with his tongue. 

“Oh, fuck,” Thomas grunts, the curse sending skitters down Flint’s spine, and fingers are clawing at the back of Flint’s head as Thomas tries to tug at hair that’s no longer there. His hips give a half-aborted snap forward and a shudder runs through Flint. He can’t give Thomas his history, not yet, but this, this he can give. He relaxes his jaw and Thomas, in half disbelief, fucks into his mouth gently. Flint drops a hand to free his own erection and begins stroking it in time with Thomas’ thrusts. 

The sight must do something to Thomas, as he swears again before snapping his hips forward more forcefully. There is a roaring in Flint’s ears, as loud as the ocean, as his world narrows to the taste and smell and feel of Thomas dragging his own pleasure out of his mouth. Thomas is trembling above him and Flint is doing that, he is the one making Thomas come apart, and it’s that thought that sends himself over the edge. Thomas’ cock falls from his mouth as he shudders through it, come painting the dust beneath them. Thomas is quick to replace it with a frantic hand and a moment later, spend is spilling across Flint’s face. 

Slowly, the world comes back to them in the aftermath. Thomas is still slumped above him, leaning heavily against the wall at his back. Flint’s knees are starting to ache, but he simply swipes a hand across his face to get the worst of the mess off, before leaning his forehead into Thomas’ stomach. 

“I’ve just gotten you back,” he whispers against the roughspun fabric. “Please,” he begs, too tired now for shame. Hands smooth over the crown of his head, and the muscles underneath Flint’s forehead tense. Flint knows what he’s asking, knows that he’s blown into Thomas’ life again like a hurricane only to supplicate him to put aside this fight.

“I’m tired,” he admits. “I’m so tired of fighting, Thomas.” He’s tired of the blood on his hands, of the feel of another man’s death throes against him. As hellish as this goddamned plantation is, Flint hasn’t had to fight for the longest stretch he can remember. He understands Thomas’ longing for freedom, and he berates himself for being surprised to think that Thomas, his brilliant rabble rouser lord who lost them everything to his ideals, would tolerate enslavement. Thomas scratches nails against Flint’s scalp and sighs. 

“All right,” he says. “All right.” 

Flint’s all too familiar with lying, but he lets the quiet affirmation soothe him anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles and summaries and my whole life from Iron and Wine songs. 
> 
> The next update definitely won't be as fast as this one, but I promise not to make you all wait a month.


	3. Cinder and Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cinder and smoke_   
>  _You'll ask me to pray for rain_   
>  _With ash in your mouth_   
>  _You'll ask it to burn again_

Nate finds him nearly a week after his accident. It’s Sunday, and given Oglethorpe’s strange morals (rehabilitation for the dregs of society, via slave labor), they are given the afternoons as leisure time. Thomas and a few other men are arguing over what little they remember of the Decameron’s many stories, and while the flush that creeps up Thomas’ neck when he is animated causes Flint’s mouth to salivate, he couldn’t give a single shit about the commentary of long dead Italian nobility. Instead, he’s staked out some shade beneath a cypress tree, and is half-heartedly practicing knots with a spare piece of rope.

The shuffle-step approaching from his left has him frowning, unable to place it. It’s when he looks up and meets Nate’s cheerful brown eyes, and not tired blue ones, does he realize he had been listening for the thump of a metal boot. The man in front of him, however, still retains his leg, and is moving slowly towards Flint with the help of a cane. 

“It’s good to see you up and about,” he calls, by way of greeting. Nate’s smile widens at that, and despite the pinch of pain around his eyes, Flint is struck by how young the other man is. His estimate may be off, but Flint puts him at just over half his own age. It’s upsetting to think of the years of labor that stretch before him.

“I hear I have you to thank for that,” Nate replies, dropping heavily into the shade beside him. Flint demurs, but Nate flaps a hand at him. “Francis would have left me there to rot in the field, and would probably have been pleased with the free fertilizer. Thank you, for what you did.”

Flint frowns down at the rope between his fingers, unused to the praise.

“It’s not bothering you too much then?” he asks, as he loops the rope around itself. Nate chuckles, and sprawls backwards against the trunk of the tree.

“Oh it hurts like hell, and probably always will, but I can walk. That’s far better than every scenario that flashed through my head after that damned thing sunk its fangs in me.” There’s rustling as Nate shuffles to get comfortable, but slowly an agreeable silence grows between them. Flint focuses on entrapping a fallen cypress seed within a knot, unraveling and redoing his work until it’s satisfactory.

A commotion raises in the direction of Thomas and the others, and Flint raises his head to watch the way Thomas throws his head back and laughs, deeply, at the frustrated look on Henry’s face. Flint tries to stifle the smile blooming on his own face, and fails. Things between them had been better since that night that he had broken down in the dirt, splattered with Thomas’ come. Thomas had stopped pushing for now, and Flint worked to show his gratitude in every moment they could steal together in the dark.

A quick glance out of the corner of his eye, and he catches Nate with the same fond look on his face, watching Henry throw his hands up in good-natured disgust. Nate notices his attention, and blushes slightly. He busies himself fidgeting with the cloth of his bandage, before swallowing and opening his mouth.

“You knew him before, didn’t you?” Nate gulps again at the sharp look Flint shoots his way, before defiantly jutting his chin up. When Flint doesn’t answer, Nate nods, and looks back down at his hands.

“I didn’t know Henry before. I met him my second day here, almost five years ago now.” Flint can see him, in his mind’s eye- the disgraced young son of some minor nobility, peach fuzz on his face and fear in those wide eyes. He could see how the calming energy of the older Henry would have been like a flame to a moth for the boy.

“I wonder sometimes, what we would have looked like to each other, had we met back in society,” Nate muses. “I think that he was rather bookish, which explains his friendship with Thomas. He’d probably have peered down that nose at me, lost in the cups as I was at the time.” Nate flashes a self-deprecating grin at Flint, but his shoulders are tense, and his eyes rove over Flint’s face, as though trying to anticipate his next move.

It strikes Flint, suddenly, that they are sitting in the daylight, idly discussing Nate’s male lover. It’s an utterly unique experience- in London, talking about Thomas was reduced to fond whispers with Miranda in the dark. After their exodus, the ghost in the room was rarely acknowledged. Even when he’d finally been able to tell it all to Silver, it was in the dark, alone around a campfire while he recited the facts perfunctorily. He’s never had the opportunity to sit and simply _chat_ about his relationship.

“I met Thomas nearly eleven years ago, now,” Flint offers, desperately wanting to return this strange offering of friendship. He can feel Nate relax beside him as he glances back down to the rope in his hands. “Within minutes of meeting me, he managed to insult me, my upbringing, and I’m pretty sure he was aiming for the Royal Navy as well.” Nate laughs, and Flint feels a warmth spreading in his chest.

“He was the most infuriating person I’d ever met, but also one of the truest.” Across the way, Thomas is drinking from a wooden cup, and Flint lets his eyes trace the graceful way his throat bobs, the easy joy on the other man’s face. “He refused to bend, no matter what his critics said. I always loved him and then cursed him for that, after he was taken from us. Though,” he says, returning his attention back to the knot, “I suppose fool’s on me, now. He might be in chains, but his critics are all in Hell.”

Flint feels Nate’s gaze boring into him, and knows that the man has extrapolated correctly exactly who had delivered said critics to their fate. He pulls the final loop taught, and deposits the small monkey hand knot into Nate’s lap, before pushing up, unable to bear the distance between Thomas’ smile and himself any longer

 

\---  


Days spent toiling stretch into weeks, and spring comes to Georgia. With it, it brings an unfathomable humidity and planting season. Days are spent hunched in a shadeless field, pushing seeds into the damp earth. Flint has never before lived life on his knees, and at forty is feeling the effects. His back twinges, and soil is a permanent fixture under his nails. He spends his evenings rubbing kinks out of his thighs and watching Thomas hold court.

Thomas doesn’t outrightly call for rebellion again, but whispers of other plantations are common mealtime companions. Oglethorpe must have caught wind of the rumors, as Flint notes the increased number of men with weapons that have taken to patrolling the fields. For the first time since Flint arrived, the bunkhouses are locked from the outside each night. The look on Thomas’ face the first night they hear the lock clang is murderous. It isn’t until Flint wraps his arms around the other man and physically drags him to the bed that Thomas lays down. Even then, Flint is sure he doesn’t sleep, just vibrates with barely repressed anger.

“This isn’t right,” he hisses at some point, fists clenching and unclenching underneath their scratchy blanket. Flint agrees, but his own pride had died at the end of Silver’s pistol. A shameful part of him thinks that, if he turns his head just right, if he ignores the presence of the overseers, the guards, and every lock between him and freedom, this life isn’t the worst one he’s lived, yet. While the work is most likely going to break him, physically, before he was much older, it was worth the heavy weight of Thomas in his arms each night. It was worth their stolen kisses, worth the budding friendship between himself and Nate, worth the absence of arterial spray anointing him. His hands don’t miss the weight of a weapon.

So he wraps his limbs more firmly around the rigid column of Thomas’ spine, and presses a kiss to his clenched jaw. “Please,” he breathes, begging Thomas for more of this imperfect peace he’s found. He can tell from the way Thomas’ heart is thudding beneath his palm that the end is inevitable, and soon, but Flint fully intends to milk every second of calm he can before then. Thomas fumes, silently, for a few moments more, before slowly letting himself relax. Gratitude is an old and unfamiliar feeling to Flint, but with his head on Thomas’ pillow and a thigh thrown over his hips, he savors it.

 

\---

 

It’s another night, a few days later, that Flint decides to repay Thomas. He has crawled into Thomas’ bunk again, and sweat is beading where their legs and arms are pressed together. Thomas has a hand slipped through the collar of his shirt and is tracing lazy patterns between freckles in the dim light. It’s been a grueling press of days, and they are too tired to attempt anything more than this gentle joining of bodies on a thin mattress. Flint swallows, lets his tongue wet his lips, before he begins to speak.

“We fled to Nassau, after your seizure,” he starts. Thomas stiffens beside him, his hand pausing and palm pressing against Flint’s heart. “Peter Ashe was the one to help us book passage. Miranda suggested France, but I was stubborn. I wanted to stay, and free you. The only way she could convince me to leave was Nassau.” Thomas makes a soft noise, but doesn’t move to interrupt Flint.

“We had enough money between my savings and what we could get from the jewels Miranda smuggled to buy a small house in the interior, with an acre or so of land. It was a far cry from your estate, but…” Flint trails off, remembering the proud look on Miranda’s face when she served him a small cake and tea in her fine china, the first one she’d managed to bake without burning. “It was home. I joined a crew, to keep money coming in.” Flint glosses over the fact that he’d joined a pirate crew, and doesn’t mention that he had been elected captain of said crew in a matter of months. It isn’t a complete lie that he joined just in order to bring in a salary, though it is definitely not the complete truth.

“Within a year, Miranda had received a letter that you’d died,” Flint whispers. “That you’d killed yourself, within the hospital.” He can’t say how she’d had to wait nearly a week to tell him, as he was out to sea when the missive arrived. The way they had screamed at each other, each of them blaming the other for the void imploding in their chests. The viciousness of their fights in the months that followed was only matched in the ferocity of their fucking, as though with sweat and tears and come, they could conjure Thomas back between them where he belonged.

Thomas waits for him to continue, but Flint finds he can force no more words out. He feels incredibly selfish, to be laying next to Thomas while missing Miranda so fiercely. Thomas leans forward and fits his mouth over Flint’s, kissing him thoroughly.

“I miss her too,” he murmurs, as he pulls away. “I had ten years to grieve you both and thought that the ache had scabbed over. And then you’re here and it’s like I’m drowning in it all over again.” Flint entwines their fingers together, and they lay like that for a few quiet moments, missing their wife.

Finally, Thomas sighs, and lifts their joined hands to kiss the back of Flint’s hand.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t wish, but could you tell me something happy?” Flint hums, quietly, wracking for some bright memory.

“I once had to teach our cook how to roast a pig while also overseeing a careening,” Flint says, slowly. “He’d lied to get onto the crew, as we had need of a cook. The men convinced him it was done hours early, and those that ate it got sick. Had to blame just some sort of common flux to keep the men from tearing him apart.” Flint has been careful to avoid mentioning Silver in the months he’s been captive. That wound is deep in his soul, and he’s afraid that once he lances it, he won’t be able to stop the words spurting forth. But this, retelling this small bit of the beginning of their story, it feels like a warm compress to the festering part of his heart.

Thomas snorts, is quiet for a few moments, before asking “And when exactly did you learn to roast a pig? Is that standard teaching in her majesty’s navy?”

“ _His_ majesty, now,” Flint corrects, and if he shoves Thomas as he readjusts, he deserves it. Flint forgot how condescending Thomas could sound when he wasn’t thinking. “And I never told you that story?” At Thomas’ shake of his head, Flint relays the story of unfortunate cabin boy McGraw, a flu-suffering cook, and a horde of hungry seaman. Eventually, he can feel Thomas’ head sag against his own shoulder, but keeps speaking. Each word that falls from his lips feels like the thread of the cocoon he weaves around just the two of them, keeping them safe and together throughout the night.

 

\---

 

Flint is standing in the woods, staring down a crying John Silver.

“I see a life for myself with her,” Silver is saying. His hand is resting on the handle of his holstered gun, and Flint feels sick to his stomach. He has to get off this island, he has to get back to Thomas and the plantation before they find he’s missing. Flint turns his back on Silver and walks away.  

He knows if he just makes it through the break of the trees ahead, he will be back home- Flint tries to run, but he feels as though he’s underwater. Each movement drags through the air, and he can hear the steady thump of Silver’s crutch behind him. Branches catch his limbs, and his breath comes panicked now. He’s left this all behind, he’s been freed, he just needs to get off this damn island. Each struggle winds vines around his ankles and wrists even tighter, until he looks down and realizes they are chains. He’s sitting in the hold of a ship, chained to the deck.

“No,” he moans, “no, Thomas- I have to reach him.” Silver is standing in front of him, a sympathetic smile on his soot-stained face. A gentle hand presses to his face and Flint sobs. Soft lips press against his own, a hand caresses his neck, and Flint is on fire.

“It was rage,” Silver whispers against his lips, before claiming them again. The kiss is all consuming, and Flint can smell smoke now, can hear the screams as the ship around them catches. Someone is calling his name as Silver licks trails of fire down his throat and Flint groans and surrenders to immolation.

“James!” Thomas cries, and Flint sits straight up in Thomas’ bunk. The blanket is twisted around his limbs, and he’s sweated clean through his shirt. Thomas is standing over him, but looking towards the door. The other residents are starting to stir throughout the bunkhouse. Flint can still smell smoke.

“What’s going on?,” he demands, as he jumps over to his own bed to shove his feet into his shoes. He can hear men shouting and horses screaming in the distance. Adrenaline rises like tempest within him, and Flint can feel his mind clearing to the calm he’s only ever found in chaos.

Shoes firmly on his feet, he joins the other men where they have gathered around the locked door. Luckily, their masters had only taken to chaining the handles on the outside of the doors together, instead of barring them in. With enough force, either the handles or chains themselves will give way. Thomas must realize it at the same time Flint does, because he’s turning and addressing the crowd.

“Christopher, Erik, grab the bench there. We need to get out of here before the roof catches. On the count of three, we’ll use it as a battering ram.” The men jump to obey, and everyone grabs at the bench to assist. Flint takes his place at the door with the other men who will throw themselves against the wood along with their impromptu weapon. Thomas’ voice rings clear above them all from where the bench is resting against his shoulder.

“One!” he begins, and the men tense. At three, they surge as one, and pound against the door. The hinges creak promisingly, but they hold.

“Again!” Flint yells, and the men retreat back for Thomas’ count. The weathered wood finally gives way after the fourth bludgeoning, and they spill into the freedom of the night. The few whoops of victory die as they take in the sight in front of them. The manor house is blazing, a terrible beacon illuminating the dark. In the dreadful light, Flint can make out the guards chasing figures through the fields closest to the house. As he watches, riders gallop in from the other direction, headed right towards the bunkhouses. The sight of them seems to snap Thomas from the uneasy spell that has fallen over the group, and he turns, shouting commands.

“Get the rest of these doors open! You, and you-” he points to Ikenna and another man- “get to the tool shed and start distributing anything that can be used as a weapon. We are to aid our saviors in the fight for our freedom!” The light from the fire blazes across Thomas’ determined brow, and for a second, he appears as holy and terrifying as an avenging angel. Flint’s mouth dries as betrayal settles deep in his bones. As the men spring into action, Flint grasps Thomas’ elbow.

“What have you done,” he hisses, rage twisting up his spine. Thomas stares him down, stone-faced, before wrenching his arm free.

“Nothing but seizing the opportunity before us. I’m not dying on this fucking farm, James.” Flint watches, helplessly, as Thomas stalks towards Ikenna, who is distributing the machetes they use for harvesting sugar cane. Something primal howls within him as he follows, and wraps his own hand around the handle of a blade. He had let himself hope that this reprieve from violence could last, despite all experience pointing to the contrary. Here he is again, following Thomas into the fray of the other’s battle.

Under Thomas’ direction, they head towards the figures on horseback, who have been waylaid by a number of armed guards. Flint breaks into a run, his blood thrumming with the fight already. Thomas is right by his side, his long legs covering the land smoothly. With a yell, he launches himself at the back of a guard and loses himself in the brawl. The world narrows to the blade in his hand, the man in front of him, and each ragged breath he drags into his lungs. His self-loathing, his anxieties, they all fall blissfully away. The next few moments are a blur of blood and screams and dying men, until they stand above the corpses.

Flint pants, and numbly wipes the blood from his lips as he feels his mind return to his body. Given the gore on his hand, he only achieves in smearing the viscera across the whole of his face. He meets Thomas’ eyes with a jolt- a high spatter of blood paints his face, but it’s the light in his eyes as he devours Flint that makes his stomach turn. It’s fearful awe- the same way, Flint imagines, one would regard a beast after it’s broken free of its tethers, succumbed to its base nature and rampaged through the streets. The machete makes a dull sound as he nearly throws it from his hand. Thomas takes one trembling step towards him, when a woman’s voice pierces the night.

“Flint!” He turns, a lump in his throat, as a rider thunders close. No one at the plantation had known his alias, Silver had made sure of that. Before he can barely leap out of the horse’s path, the rider’s body is hitting his own. He panics as arms wrap around his neck, and he spins to absorb the woman’s momentum. But she is not strangling him, or slipping a knife into his ribs. Instead, she clutches him close as she breathes out a shuddering breath, before pushing back to gaze up at him.

And there, in the smoke and hell of her raid, Madi leans back in Flint’s arms and dazzles him with a broad smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry this one is so long? Whoops!
> 
> Also, the notes I had in my outline for this was MADI'S HERE, BITCHES. I was pretty excited about her finally showing up. 
> 
> Many thanks to my fiancee for being a trooper and a) listen to me bitch about the plot, and b) beta-read for me. Thanks for everyone in the Black Sails discord channel that let me flail about this, especially as I realized uhhhh today that I had forgotten to factor in the goddamned cache for future factors. Double whoops. 
> 
> Anyway, follow me at youcanchoosefreedom on tumblr for more panicked screeching about queer pirates!


	4. Freedom Hangs Like Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bound up tight like lips around a whimper_   
>  _Your fingers over my face_   
>  _Blind eyed Sampson driven to the temple_   
>  _And night birds digging until dawn_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so notes at the beginning because wanted to add a head's up for some very consensual but kind of painful sex. More detail at the end of the chapter if you need to skip. Yes, our boys are doing it again (finally). 
> 
> One day Silver will make an appearance, I promise.....

Flint feels like Madi’s smile had knocked his soul right out of his body, and it’s only now, sitting in the cabin of her ship as they flee the bay, does his consciousness return. The night had passed in a blur of frantic riding through swampy overgrown forests, and dawn was glancing in through the swirled glass windows. Flint finds himself sprawled in a chair, Thomas quiet next to him, trying to slow his mind reeling. His face itches, and to his horror, dried blood flakes off as he scratches.

_Christ_ , he thinks. How had he ever thought that he was done with this. A panicked look at Thomas shows him leaning back in his own chair, eyes closed. Rust stains paint his own face, catching in the beard he’d grown on the plantation. Was that the first time Thomas had killed? Flint groans as he forces his body up to take liberties with Madi’s wash basin. He didn’t want to know the answer to that, didn’t want to reconcile the soft lord with acerbic wit with the hardened, blood-spattered man in front of him.

He’s just finished scrubbing the evidence of last night off his cheeks when the door swings open to admit Madi. There had been no time the night before but now Flint takes a few moments to study her as she slumps back against the closed door. Exhaustion is evident in the dark circles under her eyes and the slope of her shoulders. Her hair is twisted up off her neck, which is coated with sweat and grime. Flint can’t remember a time she ever looked so beautiful.

“Madi,” he croaks, and crosses the room in short strides. They cling to each other, and if Flint remembers the other times they had held each other, when they thought that their king was dead, he does his best to repress it. He’s shocked to find the front of his shirt where she has her face pressed is damp, and something breaks inside him. How could he have left her to weather the aftermath of John’s storm alone? He’d been so mired in his own betrayal, he hadn’t thought how Madi would fare. She looks as though she hasn’t had a solid night sleep in the months since they parted. A throat clears behind him, and Flint pulls back, suddenly remembering Thomas’ presence.

“Madi, this is Thomas Hamilton.” The smile that she shoots Thomas is one that Flint remembers from long council meetings, and resembles nothing like the one she had given Flint a few moments before. In a blink of the eye, Madi has pulled her back straight and is more composed than Flint thinks he could manage to be even with a full night of sleep and a full belly.

“I see that it’s not just Flint’s ability alone to return from the dead. It is good to finally meet you.” Flint frowns at her words as she moves to shake Thomas’ hand, and then collapse into her chair behind the captain’s desk.

“I’m afraid that you’ve caught me wrong-footed. It appears you know who I am, and yet I am embarrassed to admit that I do not yet know you.” Thomas slips easily into the polite cadence of his upbringing, but Flint can read in the rigid hold of his spine that he’s upset. Madi, raised at her mother’s throne, can tell as well, and Flint sees her gaze sharpen at Thomas before flicking to him.

“This is Madi,” he says, realizing that this situation is going to implode in his face. It’s a distressingly familiar feeling, as is his brain whirring into detached action, plotting the best course through the upcoming difficult conversations. “One of my dearest allies.” He hesitates for a moment, before continuing. “And friends. Without her, I would have been lost many times over.” Another sweet smile from Madi at this, counterpoint to the furrow that appears between Thomas’ brows as he digests this. Uncomfortable silence fills the cabin momentarily, and Flint casts about a way to break it. Remembering Madi’s odd choice of words, he turns back to her.

“You had thought me dead?” he asks. “John didn’t tell you what he had done?”

Madi’s face twists, and she opens a drawer. She rummages for a moment, before emerging with a bottle of something dark in her hand. Thomas is staring at the side of Flint’s head, certainly brimming with unasked questions. Flint ignores Thomas’ attention on him, and instead waits for Madi’s answer.

“Oh, he told me everything,” she spits, finally, between heavy swallows of the liquor. “But you and I both know that John would twist anything to his own advantage.” She offers him the bottle, and he takes it, needing the warm rum to unstick his tongue from the roof of his suddenly dry mouth.

“That bastard sold us out to England, had us all sign some farce of a treaty, and when I finally was able to accuse him of your murder, he made up some story about you, and you,” she points to Thomas, whose eyebrows are slowly raising as she continues to speak, “and unmaking Flint.”

Flint is stunned. For the first time since he’s know him, it seems like Silver actually told the truth of what happened. Madi’s eyes go distant, only the small downturn of the corners of her mouth displaying her grief.

“I couldn’t understand how he thought telling me that he hadn’t killed you, just pressed you into bondage, was supposed to soothe me. That he’d rather I a slaver for a husband than a murderer.” Her voice wavers on the last word, and Flint’s heart clenches. Sitting there in the oversized chair, weariness weighing on every movement, she looks older than he had remembered. Madi takes a deep breath, and smoothes a hand over her face. With some effort, her composure returns.

“I was a ruler without her advisor, a general suddenly without a war, and a wife without a husband. I had the time and the means to call him on his bluff. I knew roughly where he had said he had sent you. So I started raiding.” She moves some parchment and books to the edge of her desk, and Flint realizes that they are looking down at a map of the coast of the Georgia. Small marks in dark ink are labeled with a neat hand.

“It was you,” Thomas breathes, looking up at Madi half-reverently. “We’d heard word of someone freeing slaves, but couldn’t parse fact from fiction.”

Madi regards Thomas critically, before nodding.

“Yes,” she begins. “John may have prevented a war, but he could not stop me from doing as I see right. And while a large part of of my actions was freeing my people, it was also driven by the need to free my friend.” She turns to Flint.

“I am glad you’re not dead, and I am glad now that you are here with me. We are heading back to the island, and you are more than welcome to make your home there. Once we have rested, we’ll talk about what the future will hold for us.”

Flint nods. He knows that the discussion will turn towards Skeleton Island, and the cache. He’s grateful that Madi is giving him the time to sleep and gather some wits before forcing that conversation. He stands, eager to quit the room before Thomas confronts him. Flint is not nearly ready for the lie that he has been living these past few months to burn away just yet.

“There are spare hammocks below deck. Have one of the men show you where we house those we rescue. The others should already be down there making themselves comfortable.”

Flint nods.

“Thank you, again, Madi,” he says softly. She inclines her head, and he turns. He wants more time with her, wants to hear how she has fared, wants to talk with the only other person who understands what it is to be loved and betrayed both so terribly by John Silver. But Thomas is rising to his feet, looking thunderous underneath the layers of ash and blood, and Flint cannot bear to have this argument now.

He flees.

 

\---

 

After nearly half a day of sleep and the salt-wind on his skin, Flint feels himself settling. It’s the feeling of waking up from a long dream, and realizing that even though it had felt real at the time, it was nothing more than fleeting fancy. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed a deck rolling below his feet and the calls and whistles of riggers splitting the air above him.   
  
He’s thankful, then, that this is when Thomas finds him.   
  
“Captain Flint.” Thomas’ tone is icy, matching the hard set of his eyes when Flint turns to meet him. Flint simply straightens his spine and regards Thomas, waiting for the inevitable.   
  
“You sat there in the plantation, begging me to be cautious and to shy from violence. Ironic, is it not, given that you were waging war against England itself not less than a year ago?” Thomas shakes his head, and steps up to the railing. His hands wrap around the wood, knuckles white, as though he needs something to ground him.   
  
“I’m done with this, James. You owe me the truth.”   
  
Flint snorts, shaking his head.   
  
“I owe you many debts, Thomas, all of which I’ll never be able to fully repay.”   
  
Thomas growls, hands clenching against the wood.   
  
“This isn’t some game of wits, James. Stop it. Either tell me what has happened since I was imprisoned, or I walk away now. I was able to abide by your reluctance to talk about the past while thinking we had the rest of our lives on the plantation, but this-” He shakes his head disbelievingly, and waves a hand at the ship behind them.   
  
“We were emancipated in a raid by a group of freemen, led by a woman who you claim is your dearest friend. But you haven’t once mentioned her. You were both apparently leaders in a violent uprising - which, again, I know nothing about. She mentions an extreme and ultimate betrayal by her husband, the one apparently responsible for returning you to me-”   
  
“Stop.” Flint has felt himself grow cold throughout Thomas’ tirade, each word a rock sinking into his stomach. He uses them to fortify himself before striking back.   
  
“You have no idea what my life has been like this past decade.” Thomas’ eyes flash at this, but Flint continues, pressing fingers into the wound. “I have no doubt you suffered greatly, Thomas, laboring in the 'unsafe' environment of Oglethorpe’s plantation. But whilst you have planted beans and cut corn, I was doing my best to make your goddamn plans for Nassau happen.   
  
“I spent nearly all of those ten years trying to build a self-sufficient Nassau, one that was able to prove her worth to England as not a land of lawlessness but as a different form of society. I dragged myself from the ruins of our life and I became somebody that could make a difference in that pit of a city. I became ruthless and did what I had to do, Thomas. Each body I felled was an offering on an altar to this cause. And in the end, I lost. What more do you want from me?”   
  
Thomas scoffs, and turns fully to face Flint now. There’s a familiar glint in his eyes, the same he’d get during debates, but harsher. More animalistic. His nostrils flare as he looks down his nose at Flint.   
  
“I didn’t ask you to do any of that, don’t you dare put that on me. And don’t you dare assume for one second that my life has been as easy as you think it has been.” Thomas steps forward, and Flint refuses to step back, staring mulishly up to meet Thomas’ gaze. “You know nothing either, James. You think that because you saw half a year on the plantation, after Oglethorpe had grown soft with age, that you know anything about what I’ve endured? You think you understand what three years of Bedlam looks like?”   
  
Flint snarls up at him, “I think it’s a lot more pleasant than knowing you wake each day to more bloodshed. It’s better than knowing you’re surrounded by men whose first instinct is always going to be to fuck you over, knowing that your grasp on them is the very fucking definition of tenuous. It’s intimately better than knowing that those men are more loyal than the scrounging shit of a friend who sold you out, who ruined our goddamned lives.” Flint can feel the spittle flying as he continues, can trace the line of red that is climbing Thomas’ neck to the clench of his jaw.   
  
“Is it,” spits Thomas back. “Is it so much better to be locked in a sunless room and knowing that you’re rotting the rest of your life away? We’ve both had tragedies, James. The difference is I don’t act like I am the only one who knows true suffering.” He shakes his head, his right hand still white-knuckling the railing. The noise of the ship behind them has faded to nothing, all of Flint focused on the man in front of him. Thomas sighs, and turns back to the water, his eyes searching the sea for answers. When he speaks again, he sounds defeated.   
  
“I know that it has been a long time since we were separated. I know that the years have been long and I know that I’ve changed. That we’ve changed. But I refuse to believe that we have grown so disparate. You know both the start and ending of my story, James. I am simply asking you to tell me yours.”   
  
Flint is familiar with anger, with winning confrontation through sheer fury and force of will. He has no idea how to handle Thomas’ sudden surrender. No idea how to handle the gentle palm wrapping around his own fist. Love, followed by a bursting shock of fear, bubbles up inside of him. He bares his teeth, and like a cornered thing, doubles down on the attack.   
  
“Have you even stopped to consider, Thomas, why the fuck I don’t want to tell you about Flint? You think I want to recount how Peter Ashe condemned us all, and then as his final act shot Miranda like a dog? How good it felt to sink my blade into him and bring his city down around his ears for her funeral pyre? You think I really want you, my love,” his voice breaks on the word, but continues, “to know how I hunted down Alfred Hamilton and slit his throat? To tell you how I felt nothing but satisfaction as your father suffocated in front of me? You think I can stand to have you see every monstrous blood-drenched inch of me?”   
  
He stops and swallows, parroting the words Silver had left him with months ago. Thomas is staring at him, his eyes wide in his skull.   
  
“My life was a fucking nightmare, Thomas. I was given a chance to let Flint and that nightmare die. Why would I give that up?”   
  
“Because obviously the nightmare isn’t over, James!” Thomas practically shouts. Flint blinks, taken aback by the outburst. “Because despite whatever delusions you might have, you are not two people! You cannot pretend as though the last ten years have never happened, especially when they rise up to steal us off a fucking plantation!” He yanks himself away from Flint, turns and paces away, running hands through his cropped hair.   
  
“You- you are just impossible,” Thomas huffs. He whirls back to face Flint. “I would have done anything to have you back. Anything, James, do you understand?” Desperate eyes search his face. “You don’t own that feeling. And now you are here and it’s as though,” Thomas sighs again, dragging his hands over his face. “It’s as though I’m talking to a stranger.”

Flint’s stomach drops. He had known this moment was coming, but he hadn’t expected it so soon. He still feels blindsided. He should have kept his mouth shut, should have let Thomas rage at him for his silence and not tried to weaponize every shameful secret as they spilled forth.

“Thomas,” he says, plaintively. He has no more arguments, no idea what to say to keep Thomas from leaving him, so his mouth simply closes. Thomas shakes his head, still flushed with anger, and turns on his heel. Flint watches as broad shoulders stalk away from him, feeling as though he’s capsizing.

 

\---

 

Flint stares at the ceiling of the hold, the gentle rocking of his hammock unable to lull him to sleep. He hasn’t seen Thomas since their altercation earlier, which is infuriating. If the man can avoid him on a small schooner, how easy it will be for him to disappear into a whole town. Despite his fragile pride shouting him down, Flint gets to his feet. He will attempt to track Thomas down and apologize.

It doesn’t take him long- he spots a long pair of legs peeking out from between two barrels in the galley. When he rounds the corner, he finds Thomas cross-armed and contemplative with the splotchy evidence of tears still on his face. Silently, he crouches down and sits opposite him.

Despite his earlier intentions of apologizing, the words will not come to him now. Flint props his elbows on his knees and cradles his head in his hands. He and Thomas consider each other in a tense silence. Thomas breaks first, turning his head to stare at the barrel next to him, blowing out a sigh. He stares at it for a long moment, seeming to be debating something within himself. When he returns his gaze to Flint, his eyes have gone calculating. A hot frisson shoots through Flint, but he meets the look steadily.

“Come here,” Thomas commands. Flint blinks, and slowly unfolds his aching body to scooch closer. He will take anything that isn’t Thomas shutting him out. He maneuvers around the sprawled legs before him, and presses his left thigh to Thomas’. Thomas’ mouth thins, and he grabs at Flint’s arms.

“I said here,” he says, and _yanks_ , throwing Flint off balance. He steers Flint to a kneeling position above his lap, keeping a firm grip on his biceps as he goes. Flint hovers anxiously. His own hands cautiously reach out to press against Thomas’ chest. Vulnerability spikes sharp inside him- thrown off by this turn in Thomas and his precarious position. Thomas gazes calmly up at Flint, all traces of the earlier turmoil hidden behind whatever this sudden purpose is.

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Thomas leans forward and licks up Flint’s chest through the vee in his shirt. Flint jolts, the breath knocked out of him in shock. He’d expected to find Thomas, throw himself upon his mercy, and Thomas to very politely tell him that he was disgusted by who James had become and how unfortunate that they had found each other again. He did not expect the slick hot press of Thomas’ tongue tracing up towards his clavicle, or the harsh scraping of teeth against the bone there.

“What?” he croaks, when he can finally draw in enough air to speak. Thomas drops his hands to the small of Flint’s back and lets his fingers begin scratching up towards Flint’s shoulders. He swirls his tongue once more against the base of Flint’s neck, and pulls back. His lips are spit slick and pupils blown as he shoots a look up.

“You’re going to repeat what you told me earlier.”

Flint frowns.

“Which part?” he asks, warily. Nails dig into the muscle beneath his shoulder blade, and he hisses as they drag down to the edge of his breeches.

“All of it,” Thomas snaps harshly. “Starting with the day they took me away and you fled to Nassau. The truth of what you did there.” A sharp pinch against his side underlines his command. Flint shudders and closes his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. He’d already spilled the ugliest parts to Thomas, and here he was underneath him, refusing to back down. He wets his lips and begins speaking.

“Only a month after landing, I found a crew to join. I’d met a quartermaster in the tavern, and he said he saw something promising in me…” Flint continues, recounting the tale of how he’d come to captain the Walrus. As he speaks, Thomas works open Flint’s trousers, slipping a hand inside to tease along the hardening flesh within. Though his touches are light, they aren’t gentle. Thomas twists his pubic hair in a sharp tug, before drawing dry fingertips up to press a thumbnail underneath the head of Flint’s cock. Flint gasps, losing his train of thought briefly at the bright shock of pain. Embarrassingly, he feels himself grow harder as the pain shockwaves into something pleasurable.

“I didn’t say stop,” Thomas rumbles, before grasping his erection and beginning to jack him, slowly. The grip is just on the edge of too tight, and the dry friction makes Flint want to writhe away. He grits his jaw, digs his fingers into Thomas’ shoulder, and continues.

“My second year of captaincy, Miranda-” he gasps as Thomas’ other hand twists his nipple- “Miranda told me of a letter. She’d learned that your father was crossing the Atlantic.” Flint pauses to catch his breath, whining against the dry heat of Thomas’ palm. Thomas is unrelenting, and begins to increase his pace. Flint, perversely, feels himself start to leak, the slick transforming the friction into something he starts to chase with his hips.

“She made me promise. Promise that- ah- he would never land in the new world.” Thomas’ fist is flying over his cock now, his eyes glued to Flint’s face. Flint’s given up trying to match the rhythm, reduced to clutching desperately to Thomas. He chokes against the tightening of his balls with each pass of Thomas’ hand, the frantic need to come rising sharp and unbidden.

“I slit his throat for her,” he gasps, the horror of the memory melding into a gruesome sort of pleasure as Thomas swipes a thumb over the head of his erection. “When I returned to shore, she- oh fuck, Thomas- she fucked me with such _triumph._ ” Thomas growls and suddenly is shoving Flint back, rising up and moving him until Flint is on his back in the middle of the galley with Thomas grinding down into him.

Flint surrenders, offers his neck for Thomas to sink sharp teeth into. He scrabbles at Thomas’ pants, desperate to feel hot skin pressed against his own for the first time since their reunion. Thomas pulls back to help, deftly unlacing himself and kick the offending clothes down.

“You’re not finished,” Thomas snarls, leaning down to rip Flint’s own breeches off. He bites at the newly exposed hip, nips at the soft flesh of Flint’s belly.

“I killed Gates,” Flint confesses, his hands twisting themselves in Thomas’ hair. He’s rewarded with the sharp sting of teeth against the tender inside of his thigh, before Thomas tears himself away from Flint’s grasp. A horrible broken noise escapes him at the loss, watching as Thomas quickly examines the cook’s station. Thomas returns, successful, having found the cooking tallow. A handful is cradled in his palm as he kicks Flint’s legs apart and kneels between them.

A slickened finger is shoved unceremoniously into his arse, and Flint writhes.

“It was Peter who betrayed us,” he babbles. Another finger has pressed in beside the other, too soon despite the help of the slick, and the burn is slowly driving Flint mad. “He sold us all out to your father, and even when we rescued his daughter from a rival crew, he wouldn’t repent.” Thomas is fucking him roughly with two fingers spread wide apart, and Flint is squirming between the pressure and the way he feels so exposed. Any of the crew could wander in here, any of the watches could stop by for a mealy apple before their shift, and they would find Flint with his shirt rucked up over his chest, arching his back into the fingers in his arse. Thomas is watching Flint’s face, enraptured and the brunt of his gaze is driving Flint crazy.

“I was his villian, Thomas, I killed him for her and razed his city, I did it, I did-“ he slaps a hand over his mouth to smother the cry that rises up as Thomas hitches a thigh over his shoulder and shoves himself into Flint. He has no more words, reduced to a muffled grunts escaping into his palm. Thomas is rough, his hips moving in a brutal rhythm meant more to chase his own release then help Flint to his. The feeling of being utterly used, flayed and forced open for the man above him is too much. Flint breaks and turns his head, a futile attempt to hide from the feeling of total transparency.

A strong hand grasps his chin and Thomas yanks, forcing Flint to meet his eyes. Fingers dig into his jaw, Thomas’ hand inches too high to cut off Flints airflow. The promise hangs there, threatening. It’s overwhelming, this harsh man wearing Thomas’ face taking him apart so completely. Thomas’ eyes are piercing as he fucks relentlessly into Flint’s body. Flint feels completely helpless. To regain some farce of control, he slips a hand between them to work at his cock.

“I see you,” Thomas growls, hips snapping forward violently. “I see you, I see you-“ Thomas chants it, quietly before he gasps and loses his rhythm. He buries himself deep, eyes finally falling shut as Flint feels the length inside of him stiffen impossibly, followed by the wet heat of Thomas’ seed. Freed from Thomas’ scrutiny, Flint closes his own eyes and takes only two more pumps of his fist before he’s coming messily between their bellies.

As Flint catches his breath, the hand clawing at his jaw gentles into a caress. Thomas leans down and places a sweet kiss against Flint’s lips.

“I would have murdered anyone standing between you and I, James, had I been able. Had our positions been swapped. I see you,” he repeats, before slipping his tongue softly into Flint’s mouth. Flint groans into the soft kiss. Too soon, Thomas pulls away, his spent cock falling from Flint’s body. Strong arms wrap around his torso and Thomas settles in, pillowing his head on Flint’s chest. Running an idle hand through Thomas’ hair, Flint breathes. His world has shifted yet again on its axis, the nature of his universe writing itself purely by the will of the man he cradles with his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas makes Flint recount his past while pinching him/not lubricating his hand prior to a good ol handy. None of this is discussed, but Flint is severely into it. My smutty way of trying to show Flint that Thomas don't care! Thomas loves him! But Flint's an idiot.

**Author's Note:**

> As noted in the tags- this will (eventually) end with Silverflint, but will definitely focus heavily on Flinthamilton for a while. Title taken from Iron and Wine's song of the same name. Apologies in advance for how long it's going to take me to churn out this bad boy. 
> 
> Follow me agonizing over James Flint on tumblr at youcanchoosefreedom.tumblr.com.


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